


Two Bodies, One Soul

by murphamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Coming Untouched, Cuddling & Snuggling, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphamy/pseuds/murphamy
Summary: No one ever wanted Murphy.This man is no different.NOTE:Has been entirely re-written. Recommend a re-read before continuing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Please enjoy my AU. I'll be adding tags as I post each chapter.

October is Murphy’s favourite month. In October, fall seeps back onto the streets of Vancouver. Crisp auburn leaves carpet the sidewalks, the morning frost leaves a glossy white layer over the otherwise colourful gardens, and the heater finally kicks in. After three blisteringly warm months of summer, and a rapid spiral into too-cold weather, it’s nice to be embraced by a temperature he’s satisfied with. Warm, but not too warm, and nowhere near cold. Goldilocks said it best; it’s just right.

October is a good, normal month.

Or it used to be. Until today. 

When he sits down in the Ancient History lecture hall, squeezed between the wall and best friend Clarke Griffin, an odd sickness curls in his stomach. The ghost of a hand reaches inside him and pinches. It hurts, at first, fiery pins and needles dancing along his skin, reminiscent of the pain during his first tattoo. But then it dulls, and sickly sweet calm washes over him, filling his nose with the scent of lavender and roses, until all of a sudden it disappears. 

He unscrews the cap off his bottle of water and gulps a third of it down. 

Professor Blake is nowhere to be seen, and instead a substitute introduces herself, writing her name on the board with squeaky white chalk. Clarke expresses her disappointment at the man’s disappearance and Murphy scoffs. 

Professor Blake is… eccentric. He’s obsessed with the Greeks, the Romans, the Mayans, and believes Atlantis is real (no, really). Murphy can appreciate he’s attractive but the girls in the class swoon over his rugged looks and rippling muscles and he thinks it’s overly dramatic. He’s attractive, not a God. Besides. He and Murphy do not get along. 

The twinge in his stomach returns, intensified. His fingers seize up. The muscles in his thighs scream as he stretches his legs out below the table, and suddenly he understands what’s happening.

“Clarke,” he says, hand reaching for the blonde’s wrist. 

“What’s wrong?”

When Murphy drags his gaze up to hers, her eyebrows are knitted together with concern. He grimaces. “My soulmate… is jerking off.”

Clarke snorts and the gracelessness of it is a cool cup of water over Murphy’s body. The embarrassment doesn’t save his dignity much; heat gathers between his legs, his cock twitches, and his fingers grip the edge of the table harshly.

His soulmate sucks. Since Murphy turned fifteen - the ripe age for soulmates to begin experiencing each other’s sexual sensations - his soulmate has had few orgasms. The first was at an anniversary dinner with his parents. He’d hidden away in a bathroom stall in a Chinese restaurant and cried as he came all over the wooden separator wall. From that brief moment of arousal, fear and shame, Murphy vowed never to masturbate. His body called for it sometimes; in the shower, in the locker room, sometimes just at home doing absolutely nothing, but he never gave in. Silly, really. The best revenge on his soulmate would have been this. Maybe Murphy should jerk off whilst they were doing something important. The few other times Murphy had come were short-lived and late at night. They didn’t bother him much. Somehow he survived balancing morning wood, cold showers, and a seemingly never ending virginity. 

Clarke rubs his back sympathetically. “Should we sneak out?”

Murphy’s cock strains against his boxers. A hand wraps around his length, tight and fast and with a thumb that rubs erratically. He’s always known his soulmate has a cock. He mewls pitifully as Clarke dabs a handkerchief against his sweaty forehead. He leans into her hand and whimpers. 

“Shhh,” she whispers. He’s _trying_. 

He jams a fist into his mouth to maintain silence, ignoring everything the substitute lecturer says and instead focuses on keeping his legs crossed. He only hopes no one turns around. He’s thankful Clarke drags him to sit in the back of every classroom, even if he can’t see for shit. 

“Have you…” Clarke begins. She cuts herself off and gives Murphy’s unoccupied hand a reassuring squeeze. “Tried to contact them?”

Murphy makes a mental note to buy her a thank you card, and maybe some chocolate. It’s not every day you’re forced to comfort your best friend as they anticipate coming in their jeans. “Nope,” he says. He withdraws his hand from below hers and places it against his throbbing cock. The pressure of his hand through thick denim and soft cotton doesn’t help much. “Never. We only share scars and this. He might have my tattoo, but I don’t feel like cutting myself for his attention. I’ve never even-” he moans behind his hand “-I’ve never even jerked off.”

Clarke wrinkles her nose distastefully but rubs a hand over Murphy’s back again. It helps. “At least guys are quick, right? Lexa takes forever sometimes.”

“Good… good point.”

Murphy presses his lips in a thin line. Clarke remains silent, one hand between his shoulder blades, the other scribbling messy notes for them both. His soulmate tugs them closer to the edge; squeezes harder, a hand fondling their balls, and then they’re coming and Murphy’s spurting in his pants like a horny teenager. He can’t bring himself to look up for a moment. When he finally draws the confidence to turn to Clarke, she smiles sympathetically and gives him a tap on the shoulder. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m sure you’re not the first person this has happened to. I’ll get Lexa to drive us home.”

“I love your girlfriend.”

“Me too.”

The bell rings shortly after and Clarke waits until everyone has left before helping Murphy up. He mumbles against her shoulder sleepily; he’s exhausted. He manages to stumble into the bathroom opposite the lecture hall, cleaning himself up in a cramped, smelly stall as best he can. He’s grateful Lexa is such a good friend, and that Clarke is dating someone who can actually drive. The thought of a forty minute bus ride with cum-soaked boxers makes his stomach churn. He hates his soulmate. 

Murphy emerges from the bathroom feeling slightly pleasant. Lexa’s dirty range rover is parked a short walk away, and he hops into the backseat, pressing his head against the cool glass of the window. Clarke recites the mortifying story to Lexa. Who the fuck masturbates at two in the afternoon, anyway? He scowls. 

Clarke prods him in the knee. “Why don’t you just talk to him? QR code tattoos are all the rage with long lost soulmates right now.”

Murphy shakes his head. “He’s never made an effort and neither have I. Four years is too late. He doesn’t care and he doesn’t want me.”

“I was twenty-two before I found Clarke. Was seven years too late?” Lexa says.

He folds his arms and sinks into the seat. The seat belt digs into his armpit. “That’s not the same. Clarke only waited three years. I’ve waited longer.”

“A year longer. Do you know how heartbroken I was, John?” she says, eyes focused on the road. “For years I thought I wasn’t wanted. It wasn’t a long time but it was long enough. I never thought my soulmate would be younger than me. It never crossed my mind once and no one told me that I wouldn’t feel anything until they were fifteen too. If she hadn’t tattooed her number on our arm-”

“God, my mum hates it still,” Clarke chuckles.

“I would never have known. My point is, John, that your soulmate might be older too. Maybe he gave up because you never bothered either. Maybe he thinks you don’t care. Maybe he doesn’t realise you’re only nineteen.”

Murphy hates her. “I hate you,” he says, so she knows it. She’s always right. Always, always right and he hates that she makes sense, and guilt gnaws at his stomach because of her. He pouts. “But that makes me the asshole.”

Murphy catches Clarke rolling her eyes in the wing mirror. “It doesn’t make you an asshole, Murphy,” she says. “It makes this one big fuck up that probably happens all the time to so many people. None of us know who are soulmate is until we know. It’s a stupid system.”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “What if it’s not that? What if he just… doesn’t want me?”

Clarke turns around and grins widely. “Then he’s the asshole. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

The car slows to a stop and Lexa parks in front of Murphy’s apartment block. He pops the seat belt lock and leans between the two front seats, pressing a kiss against Lexa’s cheek and another to Clarke’s. “I love you,” he reminds them both, and he does, even if he hates Lexa sometimes. “I’ll try to get a hold of them. Just once. If there’s nothing, there’s nothing.”

“There won’t be nothing,” Clarke says. Murphy shrugs. 

He hops out of the car and jogs up all three flights of stairs as the elevator's broken again. It couldn’t be so obvious. It couldn’t be so simple. Why was Clarke so sure? No one ever wanted him. His mother didn’t. His father didn’t. His grandparents would never. What difference would a soulmate be? 

He jams the key into the rusty lock and throws open the apartment door. It’s an effort to get it to lock again behind him, but it does with a firm kick. Murphy abandons his bag on the sofa and roots through the kitchen drawers in search of something sharp and somewhat sterile. He discovers an old protractor, runs it under hot tap water, and presses the tip into his pale skin. Deep breaths. Count back from three. You can do this. 

A minute later, the chicken scratch of his mobile number bleeds on his forearm. He rolls a wad of tissue and attempts to stop it dripping. It will heal soon. A few days, maybe a week. Enough time for his soulmate to notice and reject him. He tells himself he doesn’t care, but he does, and he can’t help but hope for a text. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

Murphy wakes just after ten, sunlight streaming through the open curtains. He had fallen asleep around five, the thoughts and fears of being discarded overwhelmingly distracting. His head weighs heavy with a lack of sleep. He forces himself out of bed and into the kitchen to pour a glass of milk, but the opened carton fills the room with a sour smell. He settles for a glass of orange juice - still perfectly fresh - and chugs it quickly. His morning routine is much the same as it always is; piss, shower, brush teeth, comb hair, pack bag.

In the shower, he peers at the already fading scar on his arm. The number is still visible and there’s no way his soulmate won’t notice. Murphy has yet to check his phone. There won’t be any texts, or missed phone calls. There won’t be any declarations of love or desires to meet. He knows this.

He steps out of the shower, long hair dripping onto the cracked tiles. It needs cutting. Towel wrapped around his waist, teeth brushed, hair combed, he packs his bag whilst drying off. Textbooks, notebook, wallet, bus pass. Simple enough. It's not a task he can fuck up.

His phone remains on charge by the bed. Murphy taps the screen. It lights up suddenly but there are no new notifications. It's not a surprise. Nineteen hours ago he had cut his own skin, drew blood, scarred himself, for nothing. For a whim. For his friends. Why? Disappointment floods through him. He grieves for something he never had - never wanted, never expected.

The phone is abandoned for dry, fresh clothes. He wriggles into a pair of jeans and throws on a creased white t-shirt. Only when he's ready to leave does he unplug his phone and bury it in his back pocket. The bus picks him up from opposite the apartment block and it turns up almost as soon as he puts on his headphones.

His phone buzzes as he sits down in the back corner of the bus. He brushes off his racing heart. It's only Clarke.

_got a reply? x_

He texts back ' _No_ ’ and she immediately responds.

_see u in A.H trash baby x_

He snorts.

 

 

First class passes in a breeze. Art History is fun. He gets to sit in the back and work on his essays and pretend to take notes on the slides.

He enters the Ancient History room to find Clarke sat at the front, far away from their usual spot. He slips into the seat next to her nervously.

“It won't happen again,” she says reassuringly.

He sighs and longs for his back row seat. He hopes she's right. “Why are we at the front today? Is Blake back?”

Clarke points to the front of class.

“Oh,” he says. “Right.”

“He's wearing skinny jeans, Murph. I have to get a look.”

“You're forcing me to risk a repeat of yesterday so you can add our professor's ass to your wank bank. Why are you my friend?”

Clarke grins and shoves his shoulder playfully. He pokes his tongue out at her and pulls out his work.

Professor Blake is sat at his desk, thick rimmed glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. He nibbles on the end of a blue biro - a habit that Murphy is familiar with - and flicks through a stack of paper. It might be their most recent essay. Murphy knows he's failed. He looks up at that moment and meets Murphy's eyes. Murphy whips his head away, busying himself emptying the contents of his bag and hoping the older man noticed nothing.

Professor Blake's chair scrapes against the hardwood floor as he stands and addresses the class. He is, as Clarke said, wearing skinny jeans. Tighter than anything he's ever worn. Tighter than anything Murphy owns. He swallows. He's a dick, but he's a hot dick, and Murphy's thought about sucking his dick more than once.

“I hope you listened well to Nygel yesterday. You've got a test.”

The class groans in unison, and Murphy leans on the table, defeated. Clarke slides her notebook towards him. He forgot she took notes. “Thanks,” he says.

“John,” Blake snaps. Murphy freezes. “No notes.”

“Who's John?” he asks. Clarke taps the toe of her boot against his ankle. He hates being called John. Lexa is an exception. Everyone else knows. Blake knows. He never listens.

The professor approaches the table, leering over him. “Murphy. Close the book.”

Murphy slams the book closed, wincing at the impact. Clarke's notebook didn't deserve his aggression. He pushes it back to Clarke as Blake nods.

“First question,” Blake says, beginning to pace the room. “Since you're so eager, Murphy, you can answer. Where was Mesopotamia?”

Pub quiz trivia. God bless Wick's stupid ideas. “Modern Iraq.”

Professor's eyebrows raise. “Yes. When was it settled?”

“I don't know, Professor. Four thousand B-C? When writing developed?” He shrugs.

Blake frowns. “Why did you need Clarke's notes?”

Murphy sneers. “I just wanted to impress you, Sir.”

A few girls in the class erupt into muffled giggles. Murphy smirks and the professor shakes his head. He doesn’t question him any further, instead directing his attention to others in the class, and Clarke in particular because she knows everything. Murphy makes the effort to write down everything that comes out of the professor’s mouth (for once). By the time the lecture ends he has fresh notes, and has copied up what Clarke wrote yesterday. It wasn’t a particularly enjoyable lecture but he’s learned a lot. More than usual.

“I’ll see you all early on Friday. Read through chapters five to nine; I’ll be testing you on that, too.”

Clarke is already packing away her work. “Are you coming to dinner?” she asks, as she does every Tuesday, despite knowing Murphy will _always_ say yes when her mom is cooking.

As they make to leave, Blake calls Clarke back. Murphy hovers behind her, pulling on the sleeves of his jumper consciously as the older man stares him down. He shifts his gaze to Clarke after a moment.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“Abby asked if I would drive you home.”

Murphy frowns. He knows Abby?

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“Clarke. We’ve been neighbours for two weeks. I’m invited to dinner tonight.”

Clarke glances over his shoulder at Murphy and squints, before turning back to the professor. “I’m not home much,” she says with a small shrug. Murphy muffles a laugh behind his hand. She’s always at _Lexa’s_ , doing whatever it is soulmates do. “I’ll uh… wait in the parking lot then, if that’s alright.”

Blake nods and Clarke tugs Murphy out of the room. He refuses to look behind him. “Are you still coming?” she asks, swinging their hands between them.

“I’m not going anywhere with Blake. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Murphy,” she pleads. “Please don’t leave me alone with my mom, dad and my teacher. She’s making lasagna, you know.”

He does love her cooking. And he supposes one evening spent with Blake can’t hurt; they don’t _really_ hate each other, Murphy would just prefer to not spend time with him. But he owes Clarke. “Fine. I’m in.”

Blake emerges from the glass doors a moment later, bag over his shoulder and a stack of heavy folders in his arms. “Blake,” Murphy says, following Clarke to his car. “I’m coming too.”

Blake hesitates. Then: “Stop calling me Blake.”

“Stop calling me John.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Murphy. I was grading your assignment. As John.”

“I forgive you,” Murphy says, faking a sweetness. “Sir.”

“God, Murphy,” the man groans. “It's Bellamy. _Bellamy_.”

“I forgive you. Bellamy.”

Bellamy tenses when Murphy says his name. Clarke stares at him, an unreadable expression crossing her face. He's not sure what just happened, but he feels as though he's missed something. “Hold these,” Bellamy says, dropping the stack of folders against Murphy's chest before he can complain. Murphy struggles to keep hold of them; suddenly understands why the girls in class ask to squeeze his biceps. Bellamy pops the boot open and slides his bag to the back before moving the folders in. Clarke tosses her backpack in the boot and Murphy follows suite. He slips into the back seat as she slides into the passenger seat.

“Does he really live next door?” Murphy whispers. Bellamy is behind the car, typing on his phone.

“Yup. Just text mom. Confirmed.”

The driver side door opens and Bellamy climbs in. He leaves his phone on the dashboard and starts the car. It's impeccably clean. The seats are hoovered, free of crumbs. The windows are clean and it doesn't smell of anything except his cologne. The only thing that would make it more Blake - Bellamy - is if there were mythology books covering every free inch of surface. Murphy smiles to himself.

The ride is awkwardly silent. Clarke must sense it as she turns around in her seat and pokes her tongue out. “Have you heard anything yet?”

Bellamy shifts next to her. Murphy notices his eye flicker towards them and then back to the road.

Murphy rubs at the sore scar through his jacket. “Nothing. I told you so.”

She sighs. “I'm sorry.”

He shrugs. “Not your fault.”

It's his own fault.

 

 

The Griffin household always smells of cinnamon, vanilla and berry potpourri. The house is huge (big enough to hire a weekly cleaner), and everything inside has been tailored to Abby's tastes. It's probably worth more than Murphy will ever earn in his lifetime.

Murphy adores Abby. She's fierce and strong but kind. She's like a surrogate mother, even if her doting and encouragement often unnerves him. She kisses his cheek when he greets her, something Clarke always does and now Murphy can't help doing the same.

Warm hands hold Murphy's waist firmly all of a sudden. He fails to suppress a shiver as Bellamy squeezes past him and takes Abby in his arms. He can still feel the imprints when Abby brings them into the dining room. A young girl, fifteen or sixteen, plays with a reclaimed Gameboy at the top of the table. Bellamy sits next to her and Murphy sits opposite him. Clarke slipped upstairs to change.

Bellamy glances in Murphy's direction, and then to the brunette. “Octavia, this is Murphy, my… student. Murphy, Octavia is my sister.”

“He's embarrassed,” Octavia says, holding out her hand. Murphy shakes it. “He talks about you a lot. John handed in his homework late. John didn't turn up today. John's smarter than he thinks. John hates me.”

Murphy tilts his head. Bellamy avoids his gaze, but a blush creeps up his neck. “Slip of the tongue?”

“Murphy-”

He cuts Bellamy off with a raised hand. “For the record, I don't hate you. You're the one who always picks on me in class and gives me shit grades.”

“I do that because I know you can do better.”

“He's telling the truth,” Octavia says. “He mopes whenever he has favourite students.”

Murphy would never be anyone's favourite student. “Doesn't excuse treating me like shit,” he mutters.

Clarke chooses that moment to enter the dining room and relief washes over him. She sits next to Murphy and smiles at Octavia. “I had no idea you were Bellamy's sister.”

“I had no idea he taught you.”

The smell of Abby's lasagna wafts into the room as the woman herself walks in carrying a glass dish full of it. Clarke's father, Jake, follows with a bowl of salad.

Conversation at dinner is sparse. Murphy is too engaged in eating his first home cooked meal in a week, and Clarke is reluctant to speak. Perhaps because their professor is in the room. Bellamy talks with Jake about work and decorating and home DIY. It's all rather boring and dull so he drowns the conversation out in favour of the scrape of forks against plates.

“So Bellamy,” Abby says, and grabs Murphy's attention. “Are you with someone? A soulmate, perhaps?”

“I've been far too busy for that,” Bellamy replies with an undertone of sadness. Murphy frowns. “Maybe one day I'll reach out, but I already have a family to look after.”

“That's a shame.”

Clarke places her knife and fork on the mat beside her plate, and looks at Murphy. He knows that expression too well. She opens her mouth before he can silence her. “Murphy's tried to contact his soulmate.”

Abby gasps. “I thought the tattoo didn't work?”

“That wasn't for my soulmate,” Murphy insists. “That was for me.”

“How did you do it this time? Where?”

He shifts under the intense gazes of everyone in the room. There's no hiding here. “A protractor from an old math set. On my arm.” He raises his left arm and points to where he cut.

“Murphy… that's not safe. Does it hurt?”

“Only a little. It's already scabbed over.”

“Show me,” Bellamy says. He glares at Murphy.

“Um?"

"Show me. Now."

Murphy doesn't move. Bellamy stalks around the table, food discarded, and crouches beside Murphy, spins him around. “Show me your fucking arm, John.”

Murphy turns his wrist to the ceiling. Bellamy tugs at the collar of his jacket, pulling it off to reveal the scar to the room. For a moment, Murphy forgets it's not just the two of them. His ears fill with his own heartbeat and everything he sees is Bellamy. “Shit,” Bellamy whispers.

“It's… fine. It doesn't hurt that much.”

Bellamy's forehead falls against Murphy's knee. “It's not that,” he says. He leans away and pushes up the sleeve of his forest green jumper. Murphy recognises the purplish bruise and each scab mark, each red raw number that makes up his mobile. “You're my soulmate, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

The shock on Clarke's face must reflect his own. He stares at Bellamy's arm as if his very gaze could burn away the scar like a cover up laser. Anger sits heavy in his stomach and the urge to throw up overwhelms him. Bellamy's glaring at Murphy's scarred skin, eyebrows knitted together as he tries to process the situation. When he tilts his head, Bellamy's face reminds him so much of his mother's. He flinches, recoils.

“This isn't happening,” he whispers. All the air escapes his lungs in a rush. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I'm going to wake up now.”

“We need to talk,” Bellamy says. He lifts Murphy off the chair, and as he opens his eyes, Bellamy's anger morphs into a calm but stony expression. Murphy knows this isn't a dream but desperately wishes it was. Wishes the ground would swallow him whole, make him disappear. Bellamy's hands find his waist again but it doesn't feel the same as earlier. It hurts, a heavy pressure that spreads black numbness through his body.

“Bell?” Octavia calls as Bellamy drags Murphy out of the Griffin's house. He nudges him down the driveway and up to the house next door. Bellamy's house. His feet carry him where Bellamy directs until he's sinking into a large grey corner unit.

"Why you of all people?" Bellamy mutters, pacing the room. Murphy curls in on himself. Bellamy has to be angry that his soulmate is John Murphy. Who wouldn't be? Murphy doesn’t blame him; he probably wouldn't want himself either.

"I'm sorry," he squeaks. He stares at the floor as if glancing around his teacher's home is too imposing. He supposes it is.

Bellamy flops on the sofa next to him, sinking into the cushions and pressing their thighs together. "It's not your fault. It's just really fucked up."

Murphy nods in agreement.

"This explains... a lot. You're nineteen aren't you? Why now? It's been four years."

Murphy shrugs. Bellamy places a hand on his arm, fingers caressing the scarred number.

"Clarke and Lexa asked me to. I've always told them my soulmate didn't want me."

"I don't," Bellamy says, and then quickly "No, I do. I do but I've lived alone for so long that I don't know anymore."

Murphy pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He buries his head into himself. His chest hurts. Like a panic attack but he's not panicking, he's just sad. Hurt.

"Murphy." Bellamy says softly. "Please look at me."

Murphy peeks over his arms.

"I don't want to lead you on. I have my sister to think about and my job could be at risk with you. I can't. You understand, don't you?"

Murphy jumps off the sofa, burned, and storms towards the door. Bellamy stumbles after him. "I understand," he snaps, swiveling to face his teacher. "Trust me, I'm used to it. My own fucking parents didn't want me so why would you?"

"Murphy!"

"Fuck you." Murphy throws the middle finger over his shoulder.

Abby, Clarke and Octavia are on the Griffin's doorstep, all wide-eyed and probably confused. Murphy doubts he looks much different, apart from the water gathering in his eyes. He walks right past them to pick up his bag, and despite Clarke's worried voice following him, he leaves. He jogs up the road, struggling to breathe, and refuses to look back. He doesn't want their pity, and he doesn't want Bellamy's excuses.

 

 

Murphy mopes.

He bounces between working and doing nothing. His night shift as a bartender keeps him distracted for a few hours each day but when he isn't working, he's in bed staring at the ceiling, sulking and ignoring Bellamy’s and Clarke's texts. Clarke worries about him. He reads the texts but he doesn't reply.

Murphy is unsure as to why he’s so upset. He had never expected his soulmate to want him. His family didn't and more often than not his friends eventually grow bored of him. It's a miracle he has Clarke, if he's honest with himself. He should text her back. She deserves at least that much.

 

 

He doesn't text back.

It's a full week before Murphy leaves the apartment for anything other than work and takeaway. His attendance at college is slipping and it's too early in the semester to get away with it. So he forces himself into the shower and onto the bus and into Art where he sulks as he works on his latest assignment in the back and takes notes on the presentation.

Ancient History he doesn't want to go to. But he has to. So he finally texts Clarke as he walks to the lecture hall, and she waits for him outside. Murphy finds himself crushed by a hug and blonde hair in his face. Clarke's arms are tight around his neck and Murphy realises how much he has missed her. Missed this. How much he loves her and should never leave her in in the dark like that again, no matter how much he hurts.

"Don't do that to me again," she cries. "You ignore my texts and phone calls and me ringing the damn buzzer? I thought you'd done something stupid and no one knew anything.”

"I'm sorry," Murphy mumbles and he holds Clarke firmly. "I needed some time. I'm sorry. I love you."

Clarke lets him go, cheeks wet, and she punches his shoulder. Murphy grins. "Professor has been miserable all week too. What happened between you two?"

Murphy shakes his head, grimacing. "I don't want to talk about it. Is he in?"

"Yeah."

Murphy nods. "Can we sit at the back?"

"Of course."

So Murphy follows Clarke inside and ignores Bellamy's eyes watching him as he walks to the back. Murphy wonders if he looks like shit. Bellamy does. He appears tired and he isn't wearing his glasses. There are dark bags under his eyes and his hair is a ruffled mess. The t-shirt and black jeans he wears are unusual. He’s nothing like the clean cut professor Murphy knows so well.

They sit in the furthest row, as far from Bellamy as possible. Murphy opens his notebook and copies Clarke's notes from the classes he missed. lt's a while before Bellamy begins his lecture - which he spends so much of gawking at Murphy.

He's proud of himself for plucking up the courage to come in. He knew he couldn't avoid it forever. He couldn't avoid Bellamy forever. Maybe they need to talk, but Murphy's of the opinion that Bellamy has said everything he needs to say. He doesn't want Murphy. Murphy isn't even sure he wants Bellamy. He’s gotten along just fine without a soulmate, so why has something changed? Why does he feel like like this?

Murphy scowls.

"Okay, class over!" Bellamy calls and claps his hands. Students filter out and Murphy sticks close to Clarke.

"Murphy," Bellamy says when the room is almost empty. "We need to talk."

Clarke turns to Murphy. "You don't have to. I can stay."

"It's fine. You go home. I'll call you tonight. I promise.”

Clarke nods and though she hesitates for a moment, she leaves quietly.

"You said that last Tuesday. And then you told me you didn't want anything to do with me. That's fine. I don't either. So what is it? You want to talk but you don't want me?"

Bellamy frowns. "I'm sorry for what I said. I'm the adult here and I should have handled it better. Look. When I was your age, everyone had already found their soulmate. I was the only one in my group of friends that hadn't. I did everything I could when my mom was still alive to find you. I would hurt myself just to find someone with the same scars, and it never worked. I've never heard anything from you until recently. You've had four years to get in contact and you only bothered last week?"

It is exactly as Lexa and Clarke said. A systematic misunderstanding. He explains all of this to Bellamy, and by the time he’s done, Murphy is overcome with relief, but also anxiety.

"This doesn't change the fact you don't want a soulmate, does it?"

Bellamy won't look him in the eyes. "I do, I just... There are plenty of people who do fine without soulmates."

It stings. A knife in his chest.

"You're right," Murphy says, bitterly. "I've done fine without anyone until now. Why would I need you?"

Bellamy grips his wrist and holds him against his chest. "Stop making this so difficult. What could I give you? I'm old, Murphy. Not to mention I'm your teacher and if this gets out I could lose my job."

Murphy scoffs. "I don't need your excuses."

"They're not excuses. I don't want you to make a mistake and regret this."

Bellamy's chest is solid and strong against Murphy's back, and the older man's hands trail up to his shoulders, holding him steady. He doesn't try to pull away.

"Fine! Fucking fine. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm stupid and annoying and worthless. I'm not surprised you don't want me. For a stupid second when I found out it was you, I actually let myself believe I deserved to be happy. That you were different. You're not."

Murphy wriggles away, but Bellamy tackles him again. He grips Murphy's waist with all his strength and drags him close

"You're not worthless. Or any of those things. This isn't about me not wanting you, it's about your future. You're right and you deserve to be happy. I don't want you to be stuck with me."

"You're just saying that to wash your hands of me," Murphy gasps and he can't stop the tears from finally falling.

"I'm not. I'm sorry," Bellamy whispers.

"You're not."

"I am. I really am."

Murphy presses his lips together. He lets Bellamy hold him, revels in how good it is to be touched by someone other than Clarke or creepy guys at the bar. In Bellamy's arms he's warm. He’s strong and big and Murphy feels safe. For a moment, he forgets they are teacher and student, pretends they're in his apartment, enjoying a quiet moment together on a chilly Sunday morning.

But he's John Murphy. John Murphy doesn't deserve happiness.

"I'm trying to protect you here. I'm trying to stop you from making a mistake. What do you want from me?" Bellamy whispers in Murphy's ear. Murphy closes his own over Bellamy's hands. "Why are you so upset? Do you want to date me? Move in with me? Marry me? That's what soulmates do."

Murphy shudders. If someone walks in-

He can't imagine any of that with anyone, let alone Bellamy. He's his teacher, someone he hardly knows. Murphy isn't the type of person to settle down. Is that what Bellamy wants? Maybe that's why he was so disappointed and angry to find out Murphy is his soulmate. Maybe Bellamy wants someone kind and romantic and with potential.

"I just want... someone," Murphy says. His knees tremble like jelly.

"And that's me?"

"The dumb universe says so."

"Alright," Bellamy says and lets him go. Murphy's mind lags. "You want me to look after you?"

Murphy releases a distressed cry. "Stop asking me these things. You're... confusing me."

"Do you want to kiss me? Do you want me to fuck you?" Bellamy asks, and he spins Murphy around to face him. Bellamy's hand cups his cheek and he leans in, claiming his lips with his own, soft but calculated.

Bellamy's lips are warm and rough against his own. His stubble scratches his skin. Murphy clenches his hands in his t-shirt, thoroughly distracted. Bellamy deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping between Murphy's lips and roaming his mouth, and he gasps.

"Why did you do that?"

"To prove a point-"

"A point?"

"You don't even know what you want right now. This past week I've realized I want you and it makes me sick. You're still just a kid, John."

"I know I want to do that again."

"Go home John. You need to think all of this through. I won't reject you but I need to know you won't change your mind. That you want me for me, not just for the sake of 'wanting someone'."

"What? I-"

"Go home. Sleep on it."

Bellamy's expression is one of defeat. Murphy sighs and does as he's told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this chapter to make it significantly less confusing, but it's supposed to be... somewhat bizarre, to get across the dramatic/weird sense of everything? I hope I make sense. Enjoy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THAT'S ALL current chapters edited! I'm changing the publication date on this, so if you've got this far and are like, huh, that's the same? It's to give you the opportunity to re-read before a new chapter is posted THIS WEEK. Woo! Anyway! I hope you've enjoyed the newness of it, and the improvements I've made. Thank you for sticking with me so long!

Bellamy collapses onto the sofa with a sigh of relief. A long evening of grading has exhausted him to a point where he only wants to relax and watch movies for the rest of the night. He drags a blanket from the window ledge onto his cold, bare legs. His wrist aches with the familiar feeling of writing for too long, and he twists his hand around, stretching the muscles out and soothing the sharp pains that ail him. He flicks through Netflix with his good hand.

Octavia is with a friend for the night, on Bellamy's request. He loves her, but sometimes a break from the bubbly teenager is good for his soul, and especially his sanity. All he needs to make his night perfect is a good book in his hand and a cup of tea, or maybe a glass of wine, in the other. Sadly, Bellamy has none of those.

The last few days had brought more information than Bellamy could process. His soulmate is John Murphy, a notoriously troublesome student - though Bellamy can admit on occasion he did work hard, and he seemed to want to succeed in college and life in general. Bellamy had kissed him and risked his job by doing so, and he'd found that he liked kissing Murphy and wouldn't mind doing it again.

It makes Bellamy feel like a predator. It makes John his dirty little secret, stringing him along with the possibility of acceptance when Bellamy doesn't know how to love someone other than the way he loves Octavia.

Forget this. He's not sprawling out on the sofa to think about these things. He’s here to relax and watch a cheap, cheesy and cheerful film that will make him feel good inside and out.

His evening doesn't go to plan.

Thirty minutes into the latest Netflix teen romance, his phone buzzes. He ignores it the first time. It could wait. It buzzes again. It continues to buzz the third time, texts converted to a phone call.

He digs his phone out of the grooves of the sofa, terrified that something has happened to Octavia. He grips his phone and answers without checking the caller ID.

“Uh, Bellamy?” someone asks, and Bellamy recognizes the low tone to be John.

“What do you want?” Bellamy sighs, unsure if he should hang up. He slouches, props his head up on the arm of the sofa and stares blankly at the television screen.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts and Bellamy snorts. “Are you going to listen to me or make fun of me?” John demands. Bellamy apologizes with silence.

John hesitates before continuing. “I’ve thought about what you said. I know I need to think about what you want and what I actually want. I want to get to know you. Soulmates don’t have to be together and we could date other people better than each other - maybe just better than me - but I don’t want to. I want you. And I really want to kiss you again so can you just, I don’t know. Open the door?”

“The door?” Bellamy echoes. It takes a moment for John’s spell of words to sink in and by the time he adjust to the news that John wants to be in a relationship with his own professor, there’s a knock at the door. “Are you outside my house?” Bellamy asks, approaching the door. He jerks it open, phone still connected in his hand. “That’s creepy.”

John makes a show of dramatically hanging up the call and pushes past Bellamy inside. He's soaking wet.

“It’s raining?”

John shakes his hair like a wet dog and Bellamy frowns. Outside, rain dribbles, pitter-patters against the smooth tar. Winter is well on its way.

John toes off his shoes and peels off his poor excuse for a raincoat. It doesn’t even have a hood and there are holes all up the arms. Bellamy makes a mental note to buy John a new coat. Soulmate or not, he deserves to not catch a cold. He's worn it to his classes for as long as Bellamy can remember, and it's useless.

“If you came to my house to get me to kiss you again, that’s not going to happen.”

John pouts. He makes himself comfortable on the couch, careful not to let his hair drip on the expensive looking furniture, and exhales long and slow. Bellamy fetches a towel from the bathroom under the stairs and throws it to John, who half-catches it, half gets smacked in the face. He stares as John delicately ties his hair up in the way Octavia does with a towel. Bellamy falls next to him.

John looks like he’s chewing something over in his head.

“Spit it out,” he says.

“Right. Well, evidently I’ve never done any of this before. Kissing. Sex. The only time I’ve gotten off is when you’ve gotten off so I figure we need to talk about, you know, the other week. You were off sick and I was in your lecture whilst you, uh-” John flushes a deep shade of crimson and Bellamy chokes on nothing.

“Oh my God,” he wheezes. “I hadn’t thought of that. Look, it was the only chance I had when Octavia wasn’t around, and I was ill. You might be a virgin but sometimes I feel like one. It’s been years since I had sex. I’m not even sure I know what I’d be doing anymore.”

John shifts a little closer to Bellamy and leans in to whisper, as if afraid someone might hear them despite being alone together. “I don’t know anything about sex.”

Bellamy’s sure his skin fades as pale as John’s. He cannot be thinking about any of this right now. A more appropriate discussion would be how they convince the school board that their relationship will be completely legitimate and legal. Soulmates, if proven and both over the age of fifteen, were accepted no matter the circumstance. Still, Bellamy has heard of many people being fired from all walks of life for their relationships with their soulmates. Bellamy loves his job, and he needs it to support Octavia.

“Can we talk about us instead? I have no plans to do any of that with you any time soon.”

"Fine,” he mutters. “I don’t know how this works though.”

“That’s why we’re here to talk. Have you eaten?”

John whispers a quiet ‘no’ so Bellamy stands up and heads to the table by the front door. There’s a stack of leaflets and he knows there is a pizza place somewhere nearby that keeps shoving them through his mailbox. He finds the lime green leaflet and hands it to Murphy. “Pizza?”

John frowns.

“I’ll pay,” Bellamy says quickly.

“Alright. I want Hawaiian.”

Bellamy scrunches his nose. “Not sure I want to be your soulmate after all.”

John smacks the leaflet against Bellamy’s thigh when he sits down. “Fuck off. Pineapple on pizza is great. Alright, alright, fine,” he says as Bellamy stares him down. John opens up the leaflet and weighs his options. “Spicy lamb.”

Bellamy downloads the pizza place’s app and puts their order through. While they wait for it to be delivered, Bellamy leaves John alone to search for clothes small enough to fit the nineteen year old. He’s still wet and Bellamy doesn’t want him to catch a cold. His mother might turn over in her grave.

As he pulls out a pair of tracksuit bottoms and an old football jersey with his surname on, Bellamy wonders what his mother would think of him, and John, and him and John together. She’d feel sorry for him, maybe. It's no surprise to anyone that John is not well off, and Bellamy has overheard conversations between him and Clarke about his childhood. It wasn’t great. Bellamy cradles the clothes to his chest and decides his mother would adore John. She’d probably adopt him, if given the chance, like she would any stray.

“Here,” Bellamy says once downstairs. “There’s a bathroom under the stairs, you can change in there.”

John takes the clothes gratefully and slips out of the lounge to change. He emerges a few minutes later swamped in Bellamy’s clothes. His heart flips, weird and funny but satisfying. He swallows the lump in his throat. He isn’t possessive like this, but he trembles seeing “ **Blake** ” on John’s back. 

“Where’s your sister?” John wonders as he returns to the sofa. Bellamy shifts closer to him.

“At a sleepover.”

“Not a boyfriend’s?”

Bellamy scoffs. As if he would let that happen. “She’s with a girl called Niylah.”

“Huh. Why am I the only one with a normal name?”

“You literally go by Murphy.”

“Yeah but my name is John.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “So can I call you John? I like your name.”

He flushes a deep red. The film still plays in the background, almost over. “I- I don’t know. I don’t like it really, it’s…”

Bellamy places a hand on his arm, warm over their shared scar. “You don’t need to explain yourself.”

“You can call me John. Sometimes. When it’s just us. Not at college though.”

Bellamy nods. “I can live with that.”

The pizza arrives. Bellamy pays as promised and they settle down to eat. John curls against Bellamy's side, unknowingly close enough to make his skin tingle and burn.

“So does this make you my boyfriend?” John mumbles shyly behind a mouthful of crust.

“Probably.”

“You don’t sound all that enthusiastic.”

Bellamy shrugs. “It’s just going to take a while for me to get used to… all of this. I thought you couldn’t stand me for the longest time, and now you’re here, like this. Why did you come over anyway?”

“Got fired. Also wanted to talk, except we’ve done everything except really talk.”

“John... That sucks. So let’s talk. But I’m gonna eat at the same time.” Bellamy takes a large bite out of his slice as if to make a point.

“What if we don’t… fall in love, you know?”

Bellamy chews thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of any soulmates not falling in love, after spending some time with each other. The soulmate connection is a powerful thing. Obviously some people choose to avoid each other but… I’m guessing we aren’t doing that.”

“Nope. But what if you change your mind? I’m not the best lookin-”

“Shut up,” Bellamy sighs. “You’re attractive. I like you. You’re annoying but also, thank God, tolerable.”

“Rude,” John comments as he steals another slice of pizza. “So we’re just going to date? Like ordinary people?”

John’s back is now against Bellamy’s chest, so the older man moves his legs either side of John and dumps the rest of his slices in his box. He tosses his own on the floor.

“Sure. All normal things. You can come round a few days a week, or something. If you can fit it in. You’ll need to find a new job, right? Why did you get fired anyway?”

“Not enough business. I was expendable.” John picks up one of Bellamy’s slices of pizza and glares at the plain cheese and pepperoni toppings. “I’ll need another job as soon as possible. My tuition fee is covered by an education charity because of my dyslexia, but my rent and stuff…”

“Dyslexia?” Bellamy squeaks, louder than intended. “What?”

“Huh? Oh shit, I- Now you know?”

John nervously smiles at him. “This makes a lot of sense too,” Bellamy murmurs. “I would never have graded you so harshly if I knew. I’m sorry.”

John shrugs. “I don’t tell my teachers because I don’t want to be treated differently.”

Bellamy ruffles John's hair as he resumes his position from before and idly watches the film’s ending. They eat in silence until they're full, and Bellamy stuffs the rest of their pizza in the fridge. It’s getting late.

“Are you going home?” he asks, leaving the kitchen with two glasses of water.

John’s mouth twists. “I feel like we’ve not really figured anything out.”

Bellamy hands him a glass. “Well let’s talk about what we want to do over the next few days. We need to get to know each other for a start.”

Bellamy had not expected his evening to go this way. He hadn’t expected John to come back, or to make actual points about their future together. He hadn’t expected for them to almost-cuddle on the sofa.

He also didn’t expect for John to kiss him, lips still wet from drinking and mouth tasting of lamb and jalapeno. John’s arms wrap around his neck as he swings himself onto Bellamy’s lap, leading the kiss. It isn’t good - he is not a good kisser - but it’s still nice. John is warm and real under his hands and Bellamy has wanted to do this since their altercation this afternoon. His lips are chapped but soft against his own and Bellamy adores the feeling.

He breaks the kiss as soon as he comes to his senses. His hands tickle John’s waist and the boy’s eyes flutter closed as he catches his breath.

“Sorry,” John pants. “I wanted to do that within the next few days, though.”

"How is it? Kissing? You’ve never kissed someone before, right?”

John grins. “Tolerable.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Get off me. You’re heavy.”

He doesn’t budge, so Bellamy stands and hauls John with him, his legs dangling inches from the floor. “I thought I was heavy?” he exclaims.

“I guess I’m stronger than I look.” Bellamy drops him on his feet.

“Can I stay here?” John asks. “Overnight? I can sleep on the sofa.”

Bellamy steps around John and switches the television off.

“No point sleeping on the sofa when this house has three guest bedrooms,” Bellamy says.

“Three?”

“Well, technically four but Octavia uses one as her study slash closet.”

John gapes. “How much do you fucking earn?”

“Enough,” he says, and gestures John up the stairs. John happily follows him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter, somewhat filler (but still important!) chapter this time. Next chapter? Shit. Goes. Down. HURRAH! I hear your thoughts. "She finally figured out a plot for this story?" I DID INDEED. MUAHAHA.
> 
> Anyway. Uh. If anyone's stuck around during the eons since chapter four... enjoy!
> 
> And we hit the big ol' 10k. Is it weird to be proud of myself?

It’s hot. Murphy opens his eyes, finds himself surrounded by soft piles of mocha blankets and cushions. This isn’t his bed. The events of the night before come back to him slowly and in bits. He pieces together his night with Bellamy, thinking over their talk and that  _ kiss _ , as he shuffles out of the layers of warmth. 

They’re dating now. He assumes. It seemed clear last night but the new day delivers fresh worries to the table. He nibbles his lips, pulls at the already sore and chapped skin, worn away by assignments and work and general stress. It is what it is. He fumbles through the silk-like fabric until he finds his phone tucked up in a ruffled crease. The room is light, it’s morning, but his head still hurts when the home screen illuminates the room. 8:12. There’s no college today. Murphy loves weekends. 

He crawls out of the bed, reluctant to leave it. His own bed is like a slab of concrete compared to its memory foam mattress. It expands as he stands up, puffing back into its original shape. He haphazardly makes the bed the way he found it last night. Bellamy had brought him up the stairs, told him this room isn’t the best, but it’s warm, and it’s right next door. That alone had filled his stomach with butterflies which return now, achingly ferocious. Bellamy wanted - wants - him close. 

Bellamy’s clothes, or his for now, are strewn on the floor where he discarded them the night before. He pulls on the itchy sports shirt that’s at least three inches too long, and it smells overwhelmingly like Bellamy; lavender and something else that’s earthy and sharp, and the scent of his shampoo. 

He realises, after he’s spent five minutes inhaling Bellamy’s unique scent, that it must be the soulmate connection making him feel this way. It’s stirring his heart, mixing up emotions that he never thought himself capable of having. Want, lust, possessiveness. Something deeper. Not love, but akin to it. It gnaws at him from the inside out, scratching along every nerve and pulse point, filling him with…  _ goodness _ . Pleasure. 

Murphy did not feel this way last month, or even yesterday. 

He tiptoes out of the bedroom, relieved that the door doesn’t creak like his own at home. Bellamy’s door to the left is open. He inhales, holds his breath, and peers around the door frame. He’s not sure what he expects to find, but Bellamy in bed, legs tangled in expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, is not it. He’s awake, propped up against the headboard on his laptop. He’s wearing his glasses, pouting at the screen. Murphy clears his throat and Bellamy raises his head suddenly, startled. And then he smiles and Murphy's heart leaps.

“Good morning,” he says. “Did you sleep alright?”

Murphy fidgets by the door, playing with the hem of the shirt. His legs are exposed, their scar is exposed, and the cool morning air sweeps around him from Bellamy's open window. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to stand there and watch me all morning?”

“Are you inviting me into your bed?”

Bellamy smiles again, if he ever stopped smiling at all, and picks up the duvet, making room for Murphy to slide in next to him. He does, scooting close, and rests his cheek against Bellamy's shoulder.

“What are you working on?”

“Lesson plans.”

Bellamy wraps an arm around Murphy’s shoulders, typing with a single hand, and holds him close. His hand is big and strong on Murphy’s arm, and it’s impossible to fight back the shudder when he drags it up to his hair and scratches his scalp like a dog deserving a reward. He could fall asleep like this. 

“This is weird,” Murphy says. Bellamy’s hand stops. “Not that. You and me is weird.”

Bellamy’s fingers pick up the same momentum, tugging gently on the locks, making Murphy sigh pleasantly. “I’m electing to ignore that it’s really fucking weird to have my student in my bed, personally.”

“Probably for the best.”

Murphy brushes his lips from Bellamy’s shoulder to his collarbone. He’s not entirely naked; Murphy spots the slither of black fabric peeking out from under the covers. He isn’t wearing a top, though, and his skin is soft and smooth under Murphy’s rough hands. He stares curiously at the body so many girls in his class dream of. Bellamy’s ripped. Shredded. Whatever it is they say. His skin is painted bronze and brushed with freckles, and Murphy playfully runs his fingers down a particularly beautiful scar on his stomach. 

“You’re being really obvious,” Bellamy says quietly. 

Murphy shrugs. “Just wondering what all the girls see in you, that’s all.”

“Did you figure it out?”

“I suppose.”

“And do you see it too?”

Murphy glances up suddenly. Bellamy stares as if he’s trying to read his mind. “I have to see it. You’re my soulmate. It would be weird if I didn’t.”

“I don’t think this can get weirder.”

Murphy chuckles and returns to his original position, watching Bellamy work as he dozes off at his side. Bellamy stirs, shuts down his laptop. Murphy leaves his half-asleep state so Bellamy can lean over and drop the laptop on the nightstand. He rolls back to face Murphy, who’s already shuffling himself down to curl under Bellamy’s covers. 

“Breakfast?” Bellamy asks. 

Murphy shakes his head, relishing in the comfort of Bellamy's sheets; heavy white cotton that feels like a reassuring hug. He would never leave this bed if he had the choice. He doesn’t understand how Bellamy does it every morning. 

Bellamy makes himself comfortable at Murphy’s side, slotting their bodies together. Murphy’s arm is under Bellamy’s neck, who clings onto his waist tightly and tucks his face into Murphy’s hair. Murphy inhales against his chest. Lavender, and that same shampoo.

“This is nice,” Murphy whispers, and it is. He’s being held the way he’s longed to be held for forever, whether he’s noticed or not. It feels the same as before. The fiery, pleasurable pain that coursed through his veins when Bellamy touched his waist, held him close. A hungry wolf finally fed, the touch starved finally touched. No one holds him like this. Warm and possessive and so close as if Bellamy’s afraid of letting him go. If this is how it is - if this is all they can share between them, Murphy’s okay with it. 

He wets his lips and grazes them against Bellamy’s throat. He doesn’t kiss, just offers featherweight touches that make the older man sigh contently. 

“Go back to sleep, John. We’ll go out for lunch, if you want?”

Murphy nods.“I'd like that,” he whispers, before succumbing once again to that sleep-like drowsiness. 

 

 

A door slamming calls Murphy's attention, bringing him into the land of the living. Footsteps thump up the stairs, followed the rush of someone inside the bedroom. He barely notices, too focused on waking up. He blinks his eyes open. Octavia looms over him, glaring.

“Seriously?” she says, a mixture of confused and disgusted. “He's barely older than I am, Bell.”

Bellamy shuffles behind him, moans and clings to Murphy. “We didn't do anything, O. He slept in the guest room.”

“He’s in your bed.

“We were napping.” 

Murphy places a hand over Bellamy's on his waist, brushes his thumb over the older man's dry skin before threading their fingers together. 

“You couldn't put some clothes on?”

“I'm not naked!” Bellamy groans. He removes himself from Murphy and sits up in the bed, pushing down the covers. Murphy shudders.

“So are you two… doing this? I thought you weren't interested.”

Bellamy sighs, runs a hand through Murphy's hair and tucks the duvet around him. “We talked, and yeah. Kind of. But if you're not happy with this…”

Murphy freezes. Bellamy tickles his nape, a poor attempt at comforting him. He tries to make himself small so they might forget he's there. Of course Bellamy would choose his sister over him. He can't be mad. He doesn't know anything about them, but it's clear they're closer than most siblings. Like father and daughter.

“Will this make  _ you _ happy?” 

Bellamy squeezes Murphy's shoulder, and he can  _ feel _ the  _ I told you so.  _ “I think so.”

“Then I'm happy with this. All you've ever done is give me everything I've ever wanted, Bell. Do whatever the hell you want, for once. But can you please get up and make lunch? I'm starving.”

Bellamy laughs and Murphy struggles to sit up. “I agree,” he says. “This is too awkward for me.” 

“There's pizza in the fridge, O. Go heat it up.”

Octavia is gone when Murphy gets out of bed and stretches up towards the ceiling to ease his tense muscles. Too much sleep fills him with an aching and tiredness that never goes away until night time. Bellamy perches on the edge of the bed. He clutches Murphy's shirt and tugs him onto his lap. 

“I know that upset you,” Bellamy murmurs. “I'm sorry. But Octavia is-”

“Like your daughter. I know. I see that. I know there's something you're not telling me about you two, but I get it, I do.” Murphy brushes his feet over the twisted wool carpet, letting Bellamy nuzzle his back. “But she's fine with it, so it's fine. I like her.”

Murphy slides off Bellamy's lap. Bellamy stands up, dips down to kiss Murphy's cheek. “Thank you.”

Bellamy offers clothes to Murphy, and he rummages around in the man's wardrobe for something to fit. Bellamy's tall, and broad, and everything is medium or large and will never fit. He almost considers borrowing Octavia's clothes until Bellamy retrieves a pair of joggers from the top of the wardrobe and tosses them to Murphy. A small. 

“This isn't yours.”

“No. An ex's.” 

Murphy nods, steps into them. 

“That doesn't bother you?”

Murphy shrugs, picks out a shirt he wants to see Bellamy in - tight white - and helps him into it. “There's a lot we need to learn about each other. I'd prefer to focus on us right now than what we've missed out on, though.”

“You are so different from the John Murphy I've taught for a year and a half.”

“No,  I'm not. You just didn't notice me.” 

“I noticed you.”

“Okay.”

Murphy catches the small, sad smile on Bellamy's lips as he slips out of the bedroom. Bellamy catches his wrist as he walks by, links their fingers and lets Murphy guide him downstairs. “I'll tell you about Octavia someday soon,” Bellamy says, an offer of peaceful resolution to what isn't a fight or even a disagreement, but is  _ something _ .

Murphy wriggles his hand out of Bellamy's grip at the bottom of the stairs, reaches up on his tiptoes and kisses Bellamy's cheek, hand on his neck. “And then I'll tell you about my parents.” 

It's impossible not to hear Bellamy's breath hitch, or feel his heart work double time. “I'd like that,” he says, and Murphy rests his forehead against Bellamy's for a moment, a short moment, and exhales against his lips.   
  


 


	6. Chapter 6

Marcus Kane, Thelonious Jaha and Abigail Griffin are a terrifying combination. The Vice Principal, the Principal and his recorded next of kin. All of them wearing tight, reserved expressions, sitting on the same side of the desk. Jaha’s hands are linked atop the mahogany bench, Kane’s arms are crossed, and Abby’s hesitancy is less than reassuring. The room is ominous. A heavy pressure rising that envelopes him and threatens to swallow him whole; like a monster dragging ships to the deep. Murphy swallows the anxiety and stops twiddling his thumbs.

Bellamy, next to him, clears his throat.

It hurts to breathe. Hurts to keep his eyes open without nervous tears spilling out of habit. The meeting is an ambush, clobbered together like an intervention by his soulmate. Murphy had asked - almost begged - him to keep their relationship quiet just a little longer, until they figured out how to progress. But Bellamy couldn’t hack it. Felt uncomfortable and predatory, which he’d told Murphy numerous times in the past two weeks. But he’s been cornered into this. Pressured. And the panic rising in his chest is going to throw him overboard.

“This is indeed an interesting predicament,” Jaha says.

The snide curiosity laced with disappointment burns through Murphy. He has half the mind to launch himself over the desk and throttle the man. But he doesn’t. Mostly because he doesn’t want Bellamy to see the worst of him.

“Yes. It is,” Bellamy agrees.

He reaches over and links his hand with Murphy’s. It’s dry and warm against his cold and tacky palm. Bellamy doesn’t seem to mind.

They’ve not grown much closer. They’ve talked but all the information absorbed is dull and closer to a class icebreaker than connecting their souls. Favorite colors and foods and random facts. It’s exhausting. Murphy understands Bellamy’s need to go slow. His need to not feel like a vulture. They haven’t kissed, barely hugged. Certainly not fucked or come close to it. When Murphy stays, he sleeps in the guest room next to Bellamy’s. They’ll curl up in bed together for a few minutes in the morning, idly taking comfort in each others presence, but nothing more.

Murphy hates it. He wants permission to finally touch Bellamy, and to kiss him again, properly. Not soft, chaste presses against the cheek that are stitched with more want and need than they can ever satisfy.

Bellamy said it won’t be like that anymore. Jaha will approve their relationship and they can move forward. Do what soulmates do.

“And? How do you feel, John?”

Murphy scowls. “About?”

“Your connection with Mr. Blake, of course. You don’t feel taken advantage of?”

Murphy grits his teeth. “Not at all. I know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. And if he ever does, I can take care of myself. ”

Jaha nods and smiles. “And you, Mr. Blake? Your reputation could be ruined.”

Bellamy drops Murphy’s hand and leans forward. “Not if you give us the okay, and not if you keep it quiet. We’re not going to do anything scandalous on college property. I’m a private man.”

“You are indeed,” Jaha says. “But the truth always finds it way to the surface, Bellamy. That was not my question, anyway. How do you feel about John?”

Bellamy sighs. “He’s my soulmate.”

“Do you want to be with him?” Jaha says with more insistence.

Murphy holds his breath - has no choice, it catches in his throat.

“Yes, I do.”

“What you do outside of this establishment is your choice. I trust you won’t be too public with your displays of affection, and John is of legal age. I approve of your relationship.”

Bellamy’s sigh of relief is loud in the otherwise silent room. Murphy’s unable to raise his eyes to meet anyone’s gaze.

“However,” Jaha says, and Murphy flinches. “Marcus. What are your thoughts?”

Kane clears his throat.  “John’s grades are slipping in Bellamy’s class. I’d like some assurance they’ll improve, without any cheating of course. Perhaps he should be moved to another class.”

Murphy glances up suddenly and frowns. “I’m already improving. You can’t move me. Without Clarke-”

Abby turns to Jaha and smiles. “My daughter and Murphy work together well. Don’t make him move. Clarke will study with him, I assure you.”

Kane opens his mouth to speak but Jaha taps his palm against the desk, drawing the room’s attention. “Very well then. Congratulations, both of you. It goes without saying, Bellamy, that you may not show favor to John. No tutoring, or marking with bias. You understand?”

Murphy watches Bellamy nod. The room is dismissed and Murphy hurries out of the office, where Clarke is waiting for him. She draws him into a warm hug and Murphy sighs against her blonde hair.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“As well as can be. Jaha approved.”

“Oh Murphy,” she whispers. “I’m so glad. You’re happy, then?

“Just a little.”

Clarke laughs softly. “That’s better than no. I’ll meet you in class, okay? Someone’s waiting for you.” Clarke gestures behind him before she turns and leaves.

Murphy glances over his shoulder. Bellamy leans against the wall, watching him quietly.

“I’m sorry I forced you into that,” he says. His gaze travels to the floor and back up. “It wasn’t fair.”

Murphy shrugs and curls his fingers around Bellamy’s biceps, leaning against him. Not quite a hug, but something. “What happens now?” he mumbles. He inhales Bellamy’s unique scent - lavender, and he discovered the shampoo scent is _rosemary_. It brings him comfort. Safety.

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair and gently kisses his forehead. “Now you go learn, I go teach, and we get dinner tonight. Somewhere nice. How does Japanese food sound?”

“Never had it.”

“First time for everything. Tell Clarke I’ll drive you both home at four. Now go. Before we get in trouble for P - D - A.”

Murphy lingers a moment longer, breathes Bellamy in a few more times. His lips meet his cold forehead once more and he sighs, blissful. It’s hard to pull away, but he has to. Class starts soon. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “Okay. See you later.”

“See you later,” Bellamy echoes.

 

-

 

Bellamy takes him to a small Japanese restaurant on the edges of the city. Close enough to walk to from home without the cool evening air aching their bones. The coat Bellamy had bought him days ago is warm, thick and soft. Navy blue, a color he’s learned is one of Bellamy’s favorites, with grey accents. It’s nice. And it’s warm. Somehow it smells of Bellamy too.

“What do you want?” Bellamy asks, breaking the quiet stewing between them.

They’ve squeezed into a booth against the window. The red leather cladding is cool to the touch, refreshing. Murphy takes a wobbling laminate menu from Bellamy’s hands and squints at the length. 

“I don’t know.”

“I’d recommend the ramen.”

Murphy rakes his eyes over the long, reflective menu and squints. There are words he can’t understand, ingredients he doesn't recognise. His dyslexia tugs him into reality. “That sounds great.”

Bellamy orders for them, and a waiter brings two cups of something called Sake to the table. Rice wine, whatever that is.

“I bring Octavia here sometimes. On special occasions.”

The corner of Murphy’s lips twitch. He can imagine Octavia enjoying a restaurant like this. “It’s expensive,” he comments.

“I’m paying. Don’t worry.” Murphy opens his mouth to protest but Bellamy’s glare silences him. “Have you found a job yet?”

“No.”

“Any ideas what you want to do?”

“I don’t care. I just need a job.”

Bellamy frowns, takes a small sip of Sake. “Are you paying your rent on time?”

Bellamy chooses his questions well. He must be able to read Murphy like a book, because his gaze is both curious and knowing.

“Yes,” he says. It’s true. He is, but he won’t be soon.

“I was thinking…” Bellamy glances out of the tinted window. Murphy can see him chewing his lip. “Do you want to move in with me?”

Murphy freezes. It takes a while for Bellamy’s words to process. “Did you invite me here to ask me that?”

“No. It just seems like the next step. You stay at mine a lot and you don’t have a job. You’ll lose your apartment if you don’t find one soon, right? So why not?”

“I like my apartment.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “You live in the worst neighborhood. Your door doesn’t even lock, for goodness sake. What if someone breaks in?”

Murphy scowls. “I can look after myself. I don’t need you to protect me.”

Their food arrives, and the waiter must notice the tense atmosphere as he doesn’t stick around long. Bellamy digs in. After a while of slurping, struggling to hold the chopsticks steady, and puffing cool air onto his noodles, Bellamy drops the chopsticks onto the place-mat and sighs. Murphy startles.

“Look,” Bellamy says. “I get it, I do. You think this is me trying to… assert myself over you. You’re less fortunate so you should have to give up everything and come to me, or something. It’s not that. I want you close, that’s all. And it would save us both money. I wouldn’t have to pay so much on fuel if I’m not picking you up and taking you home all time. Not that I mind. I just want you close, John.”

Murphy sucks in a deep breath, sets his chopsticks down over the bowl. “Fine. But I want something in return.”

Bellamy nods. “Name your price.”

“I need you to tutor me. To make sure I pass.”

“But Jaha said-”

“I don’t care what Jaha said, Bellamy. I can’t fail your class. There's no point in me being at college at all if I fail your class and my degree.”

Murphy's aware he's raising his voice, and someone from the booth next to them huffs. Bellamy nods, a sign he’s taking him seriously.

“Okay. If they get suspicious, we’ll have to think of an excuse.”

“Clarke. Or your books.”

“That’s clever.”

They fall into companionable quiet as they slurp their noodles. Murphy’s tipsy by the time they leave the restaurant, and his mind races. He’ll be living with Bellamy. His soulmate. Will he still stay in the spare room, or will Bellamy finally invite him into his? Their relationship sits as friendly acquaintances at best, and it’s odd. Not quite what he thought a soulmate would be. The alcohol running through his veins heightens his insecurities.

Bellamy unlocks the door and nudges Murphy inside. He can’t help but glance at the Griffin’s house. He’s going to be their neighbor soon.

“Come here,” Bellamy whispers in the dark hallway. His fingers fumble with Murphy’s zip and his hands tug the coat off over his shoulders.

“Are you undressing me?” Murphy chuckles, pliant.

Bellamy rustles in the darkness and drops his own coat on the floor somewhere. His hands catch Murphy's hips, pulling him close and pushing him against the door at the same time. “You have no idea how much I want to,” he says.

Murphy swallows. He can’t see Bellamy, but he can feel him. Lined up against his body, every inch pressing against him, cool breath dancing along his neck.

“So why don’t you?”

Bellamy’s thigh slides between Murphy's legs and he gasps. Bellamy attacks his neck, nipping and kissing, and Murphy smell the booze on him. His cock twitches as Bellamy's leg grinds, and the other man's hardness swells to meet him. The hot kisses on his skin make his hairs stand on end. “Bellamy,” he whimpers.

Bellamy hums in response, runs his hands under Murphy’s t-shirt, and then down over his jeans, one hand cupping his ass. Murphy gasps again. Bellamy jerks back suddenly, burned.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, sorry, fuck, I’m sorry. I’m - bed. Yeah.”

He disappears up the stairs - the clumsy, heavy thuds echoing through the house. Murphy’s left slumped against the door, barely holding himself up. His cock aches and his heart drums rapidly.

He’s trembling.

And Bellamy’s gone.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THINGS. ARE. HAPPENING. WOO!


End file.
